Word Painting of a Psychiatrist

When I first saw you,curled in toadstool of mind’s eye,I wanted to learn how to paintso that I could explain colorlythe conversation of your skin tones,the shock talk of hues that was your body.

I wanted to convey the pickled awe at the inside of my throat as I looked on you.Even at 16 I knew what you were: wunderkammer,a madness of sense-awakening things,astonishment soup and wonder mushroomsin a boy shape, you most treasuredcabinet of curiosities, you.

But I cannot paint, so I explain you wordily.First, I talk about your very dark hair,much-coveted and positively full of wolves.It moves when you move, as though you werethe wind blowing that hairy planet.Blackstar, blackbird, fly me somewhereon those unfathomable strands.

Next I talk about your smile.Wry on the rocks, Cheshire-Cat-style,a jaunty, crooked marvel, peeking out of conspicuously unsmiling crowds, like a frozen margaritain a world of compulsory milk,that moves when you talk, but never leaves.

Then I describe your ears, a little big, maybe,but this is what makes them perfect.One day, I have a wild vision of swimming in them,an ear-fish in waxy waters. While inside, I discover that those aural cavities of yours are awashwith Thumbelinas and convenience stores for fairy folk. As I leave, I swear I see the tiny headlights of a clown troupespreading out of your acoustic organs, lighting my way.

Finally, I add your eyes to the equation.Neck plus shoulders plus these shining things equals you:Someone who crouches close to see the villagers’ pain,peers into brain valves and mind machinery,eases the ache of neural connections,goes at endless melancholy with a wrench. I remember when I was crying and you told me with those nervy orbs everything I needed. I knew then that this is what you did for all those peoplein your factory of gentleness, where you keep the invisible thingsthat matter most to people